Each day feels slower than the next.

The fog hangs in the air, wetter than wet, less crisp, more real.

Library books stacked on the side table in the living room, and the swish-clatter of the dishwasher. You can even smell the pine trees, which is novel.

Every day is a little slower. I drive to this place, then that, an errand here, a small moment with the windows open and the rearview fogging up from the humidity. The CD player on, loud.

People say hello. People look at you. People are always moving more slowly than you are. They are in a different place, they are moving at the correct speed for merging, splitting, racing.  Hello, goodbye, how are you, no really, how are you.

Bay rum soap, pine trees, detergent, tea, allspice, rain-soaked soil.